Stacey Alexander: Off The Beaten Path In Costa Rica

In 2019, a couple of friends and I were in Costa Rica. Our first planned stop was the seaside village of Tamarindo. And on the first night, we had an unfortunate incident: My friend was jumped late at night while walking back to the hotel. He lost $900 to the bandits. 

The perp came up quickly behind my friend, yanked the wallet from his back pocket, spun him around to face me, and put a half-moon blade just below his heart to keep me from joining in the ruckus. I was frozen. In a split second, I saw a disaster in the making. No amount of cash in a wallet is worth the risk of a street brawl in a foreign land. What a drag it would be making arrangements at the U.S. consulate for extraditing a body to Tennessee. 

The munchkin thief and his driver suddenly appeared in a small car as we walked up the last hill to our hotel. My friend didn’t notice the car because he was distracted by two girl decoys who magically stepped out of the shadows behind us and said, “Sir, you forgot your glasses at the bar.” The crew of thieves had exquisite timing. The ordeal took less than 20 seconds. 

I guess you know by now I didn’t set out to write your standard feel-good travelogue article about visiting Costa Rica. 

The next day, a policeman informed us we’d have to go to Playa Grande to complete an official police report. Playa Grande was 100 miles away. We weren’t on a tight schedule, we were in Costa Rica, no one is on a tight schedule in Costa Rica, so we decided to go. I informed my friends that it would be a useless trip, but if we were just interested in traveling and seeing the sights, then we should do it. I was hip to the corrupt police and weak judicial system in CR. 

This confiscated pad had it going on at one time: Three pools, a spectacular view, and mountains of blow on every table. I guess the police budget can't keep the pools filled or heated anymore. Finding this place was difficult - not a single road sign to guide you in, and out of range of the Internet. Who would want to mess up the landscape anyway? Or conduct business? Or fill out a police report? The locals all seemed to know where it was and directed us accordingly. But making out a police report about a robbery that happened 100 miles away was an entertaining, yet hopeless, fiasco.

 

The massive bay is glassy still. But beware of these calm waters — for the Hammerhead is king here.

So there it was, as Leticia Gomez, an elderly Latino lady with such refined characteristics that one could forget she was a simple hostel landlord and curtsy in her royal presence, described it. 

She said, “I wouldn’t go there. There’s not much to see. There are a couple of little fishing villages. But it’s not a tourist destination.”

I said, “Sounds perfect. I’m going.”

“Ok.” She said in a calm tone, I’ll call out the search teams if you're not back by tonight.”

I replied, “Ok, I would appreciate that.”

The little surf town of Dominical, Costa Rica, has one main dirt road. It takes more than a few minutes to get to the beach because of the potholes. It’s maybe a mile to the beach from Pacific Highway 2. It’s a nice getaway for the adventurous types on a budget. It offers the best surfing in the country. The waves are not humongous, but they break consistently and with force. And watch out for the undertow. It can pull your feet out from under you and serve you up quickly to slimy ocean creatures. Modest female swimmers should wear a one-piece bathing suit in these waters. 

My stay was nearing its end, and I needed to get out and do something different. (This statement, by a U.S citizen in a foreign land, is always followed by a dynamic timpani drum roll) 

My friends left two weeks earlier. I needed an entire month in this place. One of my dreams is to learn how to surf. But filming surfers was the best I could do because the negative thoughts surrounding the titanium pins in my sore leg were winning the narrative debate against my positive masculine ego. 

The drive to Golfo Dulce was around two hours south. It borders Panama. Once I left the highway, it took about another hour to drive to the bay. It was beautiful. The most vivid colors imaginable were mesmerizing my neurons. The roadside jungle foliage hides everything behind it. And what lies behind it sets your imagination running. You won’t be hiking any trails in these jungles off Road 245 because there aren't any. You can shoot plenty of footage as you drive by. There’s no need to worry about traffic. There’s not any.

Small villages service the fishing industry on the east side of the inlet. You will not find fancy spas or zip lines through the canopy here, but you can get your outboard engine serviced in a jiffy. There are accommodations for fishermen and hearty hikers who want to attempt the trails in the Golfito National Wildlife Refuge or the many other parks in the area. 

You’ll be ready to get back to civilization after an adventure here. If you are civilized - a question we all have to ask ourselves from time to time. 

You may want to up a snorkeling tour on the western side of the peninsula. These tours will be a once-in-a-lifetime adventure — the crystal-clear water will be well-cemented in your memory bank for eternity. 

(whoops, I slipped into a travel agent zone there, sorry)

Let me get back to my schtick:

The lack of traffic was unnerving. And no cell service makes one contemplate how delicate life can be in such areas. But I had a decent rental car, a full tank, and the confidence of a NASCAR driver that I could outmaneuver highway bandits and make it out alive. 

The road was curvy and well-built. I kept increasing the speed. I was enjoying the driving experience. I needed to make time because I got a late start. The little rental car was fast. The sightseeing tour turned into a road rally adventure. The parrots and cockatoos had a front-row seat. But mature thoughts of flat tires and roadside help from squinty-eyed bandits began to creep in. So I slowed the pace down. 

Remember, you’re just a tourist wearing white socks and shooting a camera. Act like a tourist and try like hell to be normal. Think important thoughts - like, where’s my sunscreen? Because losing your sunscreen is more devastating than losing your passport in Latin America. And if you wreck this rental car, you’ll be dealing with a foreign insurance company. Did I even get collision insurance on this rental car?

The race was over. I crossed the imaginary finish line. I was the champion of the Costa Rica Rental Car Rally 200. I enjoyed my unapproved tourist trek and headed back to a safer zone. 

You have to ad-lib on vacation sometimes. 

I turned in the shiny rental car a few days later - thanks to heavy monsoon rains … with no dents. 

So, the dignified Leticia Gomez was correct - there’s not much to do in Golfo Dulce unless you’re a drug dealer, a serious commercial fisherman - or an imaginary race car champion.

Stacey Alexander